VICTORY ! 

Celebrated by thirty-ei^ht American Poets 



BROUGHT TOGETHER BY 



WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE 




Class -XISZ.^ 
Book ' ^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSHi 



VICTORYI 



YICTORY! 

Celebrated by thirty-eight American Poets 



BROUGHT TOGETHER BY 

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

THEODORE ROOSEVELT 




BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 






-^ge- 






Copyright, 1918 
By the Boston Transcript Company 

Copyright, 1919 
By Small, Matnard & Company 

(INCOBPOBATED) 






4 1.^ J'^ 



THB UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 



JUN 23 \m 



^CI.A52e000 



TO 
FERDINAND FOCH 

Le Mar^chal de France 



INTRODUCTION 

Lowell's great lines ring as true to-day as at the close 
of the Civil War: — 

Come, Peace ! not like a mourner bowed. 
For honor lost an' dear ones wasted. 

But proud, to meet a people proud. 
With eyes that tell o' triumph tasted ! 

We are humbly and profoundly grateful that now, 
as in the great crisis of the Civil War, America should 
have imposed peace with hand close gripping the sword 
hilt and with the flush in her face that shows her to be 
Victory's daughter. The nation has not been put to 
any such terrible trial as in the years that intervened 
between Sumter and Appomattox, and our service and 
our sacrifice have been small compared with the service 
and the sacrifice of France and of England. But be- 
fore it was too late we did find our souls ; before it was 
too late we definitely shook ourselves free from the crass 
and ignoble lack of spirituality which found expression 
in such phrases as being " too proud to fight," as wish- 
ing " peace without victory," and as having no concern 
with the causes and objects of the war that divided the 
powers of the pit from the powers of light. Our help 
was of vital consequence and turned the scale, and with 
blood and tears we purchased the right to range ourselves 
among those peoples who dared stand on the perilous 
heights of greatness for the sake of a lofty ideal. I am 
glad that there should be an effort to commemorate the 
great peace of triumph which we have helped to win 

vii 



by collecting what our singing men and singing women 
have written concerning it. Their poems must not 
merely remind us of the victory as a matter of vain- 
glory; but as a lesson for keeping our bodies and our 
souls trained to meet the new duties, and the old, old 
dangers that come with new faces. All experience is 
an arch, which does not mark the end of effort, but 
merely opens up new roads of trial and of adventure. 

At the end we did well ; our many and shameful short- 
comings in preparation and output of material were off- 
set by the gallant readiness with which by the milHon 
our young men sprang forward to shed their life's 
blood in the quarrel for right. But we must not treat 
what has been done as a matter merely, or indeed pri- 
marily, for boast fulness. On the contrary, let us learn 
the lesson in which long ago we should have been letter- 
perfect. Let us never again be guilty of the sin of the 
unlit lamp and the ungirt loin ; let us hereafter be ready 
in advance to defend our rights against alien foes with 
all our hardened might; and let us brace ourselves 
with steel-hearted resolution and with serene wisdom to 
grapple with the vitally important problems of peace — 
just as, if necessary, we will grapple with the problems 
of war. 

THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 



vm 



VICTORY! 



TO MARSHAL FOCH 




By Percy MacKaye 

AGNIFICENT, the hearts of hu- 
mankind 

Exult in joy of this immortal hour 

That makes us witness of the awful 
power 

Unleashed of liberty; but deeper- 
shrined 

Than joy our wonder iSj that out of blind 
Turmoil of peoples, and the twilight glower 
Of imminent chaos — pure as Giotto's tower 
Poised in the tempest — soars victorious Mind. 
Focus of freedom — Foch! Your mind has made 
Reason — religion's theme j, intelligence — 
An anthem rising from the blood-dark sod, 
Your brow — a temple where the world has prayed. 
Your brain — of myriad souls the single lens: 
A burning-glass, held in the hand of God. 




AU MARfeCHAL FOCH 

Par Percy MacKaye 

AGNIFIQUES, les coeurs des 

hommes 
Bondissent dans la joie de cette heure 

immortelle 
Qui frappe, en nous, le temoignage de 

puissance 
De la liberie furieu^e ... 
Mais, ancree plus profond que la joie, notre surprise 

emerveillee 
Voit, de Vaveugle ruee des peuples, 
Et du crepuscule d'un imminent chaos, s'elancer 

— aussi pur que le Campanile en equilibre dans la tem- 
pete — 

VEsprit victorieu^v, 

Foch! foyer de toutes nos franchises . . . Par ton 

esprit 
La raison devient source mystique, 
Uintelligence un chant, monte de Vherhe sombre de 

sang. 
Ton front, un temple oil le monde a prie, 
Et ton cerveau, un centre unique pour des dmes par 

myriades, 

— une lentille ardente, que tient la main de Dieu. 

Traduit en frangais par Pierre De Lanux, 

Haut-Commissariat de la Republique frangaise aux Etats-Unis, 
Washington, D. C. 



TO KING ALBERT 




By Josephine Preston Peabody 

\HE kings of earth are gathered and 
gone by! — 
Sing the four winds of heaven; and 

with them sing 
The high victorious tides that hourly 

bring 
In-rushing message of fresh victory. 
And from their places^ all the stars that cry 
*' Onward" to this worn world, with triumphing. 
Lean and take heed of one far, flame-lit thing ^ 
One human brightness in its sovereignty, 
O king and leader, of a mightier host 
Even than thine own, — at last to see thee stand 
Fronting the nations of this earth again! 
A king, a stronghold; — for the uttermost 
Far-follower after light with sword in hand; 
Defender of the Faith, — to hearts of men. 




TO FIELD MARSHAL SIR DOUGLAS HAIG 

By Edwin Francis Edgett 

BOM Scotland, country of grim 
Northern light. 

Whose valour down the centuries 
long road 

Unnumbered men has given to Em- 
pire's might. 

Into the battle's midst a soldier strode. 
Briton and Scot alike, he found his star. 
On world-flung missions of supreme unrest, 
Soudan, Natal and India called him far 
To long-sought visions of imperial quest. 
Tumultuous time made sure the threat of years. 
The war of wars went on with swift advance. 
His country summoned him to higher spheres. 
He answered, and the hordes were thrust from. France. 
Warrior and knight, a greater rank his gain, 
A peer of England and of earth's domain. 



TO GENERAL ARMANDO DIAZ 




By George Edward Woodberry 

HED roses through the soft Italian air. 

And strew his way with flowers! with 
laurel crown! 

Hunter, who brought the Imperial 
Eagle down. 

Flapping to death o'er Alpine sum- 
mits bare. 

And in the towering passes slew him there — 
The Austrian! with death and havoc thrown 
From shell-ploughed plain and violated town, 
Back from the isles of Venice to despair! 
Again the Mincio breathes the wind of fame. 
And with the proud Piave rears a crest 
Of victory in flood! sound, Rome, his name, 
DIAZ! and to the festal world proclaim 
Italia Madre, clasping to her breast. 
Redeemed, Dalmatia, Pola and Trieste! 



TO GENERAL PERSHING 



.:^ 




By Amelia Josephine Burr 

OU led our sons across the haunted 
flood 

Into the Canaan of their high desire — 

No milk and honey there, hut tears 
and blood 

Flowed where the hosts of evil trod in 
fire 

And left a worse than desert where they passed. 
Your eyes were clear to see the snares that lay 
Before those boyish feet that marched so fast — 
Your heart and hands were strong to clean the way. 
Charged with great cares, your soul did not forget 
The anxious women here across the sea. 
As might a father for his own, you met 
And fought an older foe than Germany. 
Now, now at last, back from the silenced guns. 
Crowned by our blessings you shall lead our sons! 




TO CARDINAL MERCIER 

By Charles Hanson Towne 

^^^^y^^HEN the world rocked in the red 

tide of War, 
And darkness deepened on your tragic 

land. 
You cried your hatred of that evil 

hand 

That crushed to ashes all we builded for. 
In agony of heart and soul you swore 
The Hun should suffer for his burning brand 
And the black deeds his brood had foully planned. 
As from his face the awful mask you tore. 
You were the fearless spirit who could say 
Loud words of righteous anger to a world 
When in the tempest of despair it whirled. 
We needed you on that disastrous day. 
With flaming eyes and lip of scorn upcurled. 
Soldier of God, immortal Merder! 




TO GENERAL LEONARD WOOD 

By Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 

OUR vision keen, unerring, when the 
blind 

Who could not see turned, groping, 
from the light. 

Your sentient knowledge of the true 
and right 

Has won today the freedom of mankind. 
Honor to whom the honor, he assigned. 
Mightier in eccile, than the men whose might 
Is of the sword alone, and not of sight. 
You march beside the Victor host aligned. 
Had not your spirit led, our ardent youth 
Had faltered leaderless, their eager feet 
Attuned to effort for the valiant truth. 
Through your command alone, rushed to compete 
To hold on high the torch of Liberty, 
Great visioned soul, yours is the victory. 




1918 

By Scudder Middleton 

I 

OW they are watching us from cloud 
and wave. 

Out of the wind and sunbeam, from 
the dust, 

The love, the strength, the beauty 
that they gave 
Are pleading with our hearts to keep the trust. 
Shall we shout loud and wave the battle flag; 
Be thoughtless in the time of peace and let 
The old, black drums of War still call and brag 
Throughout the land? Shall we so soon forget 
The grace of flesh, the dancer in the brain. 
Audacities and dreams and all the truth 
Of speech and laughter that the crimson rain 
Shattered and took away from lovely youth? 
Shall we conceal this shame of War by pride, 
Remembering not the things for which they died? 

II 

Long held content within your seagirt home, 

America, you child of work and mirth. 

Now you have snapped the ancient bars to roam, 

A giant stripling, over all the earth. 

10 



Now all the glittering earth is yours to hold: 
The million-handed engines and the stone 
Piled Babel- wise and all the noisy gold, 
The proudest ships the world has ever known. 
O child, beware of your heroic part — 
The low Satanic voice is in your ears. 
Look long and deep into that giant heart. 
For what you do will make the waiting years! 
Not in defeat but in the hour of might 
Comes on the test that reads the soul aright. 

Ill 

Not now, the new Atlantis of our dream, 

But soon — dear, tired people everywhere ! 

The sun has pierced the smoke: the plow will gleam. 

The grain will climb again upon the air; 

The honest days will bring the work that heals 

Back to the village and the streets of stone ; 

There will be sweeter music from the wheels. 

For hands that make will be the hands that own. 

Lead on, brave spirits ! Not until we fight 

The battle of the mind will life be wise. 

Until we are no more afraid of light. 

We can not bring our Heaven from the skies. 

O I have heard the clear, new bugles blow 

Over the English lanes and Russian snow! 



11 



THE SMALL TOWN CELEBRATES 

By Karle Wilson Baker 

E tumbled out into the starry dark 

Under the cold stars; still the sirens 
shrieked. 

And, as we reached the square, two 
rockets hissed 

1 And flowered : they were the only two 
in town. 
Down streamed the people, blowing frosty breath 
Under the lamps — the mayor and the marshal. 
The fire department, members of the band, 
Buttoning their clothes with one hand, while the other 
Clutched a cold clarionet or piccolo 
That shivered for its first ecstatic squeal. 
We had no cannon — we made anvils serve. 
Just as our fathers did when Sumter fell ; 
And all a little town could do, to show 
That twenty haughty cities heaped together 
Could not be half so proud and glad as we. 
We did. Soon a procession formed itself — 
Prosperous and poor, young, old, and staid and gay, 
Every glad soul who 'd had the hardihood 
To jump from a warm bed at four o'clock 
Into the starry blackness. Round the square — 
A most unmilitary sight — it pranced. 
Straggled and shouted, while the street-lamps blinked 
In sleepy wonder. 

At the very end 
Where the procession dwindled to a tail, 

12 



Shuffled Old Boozer. From a snorting car 
But just arrived, a leading citizen 
Sprang to the pavement. 

"Hallelujah, Boss! 
" We's w^hop de Kaiser!" 

" Well, you old black fraud," 
(The judge's smile was hiding in his beard) 
"What's he to you?" 

Old Boozer bobbed and blinked 
Under the lamps; another moment, he 
Had scrambled to the base about the post, 
And through the nearer crowd the shout went round, 
"Listen — Old Boozer's going to preach!" 

He raised 
His tranced eyes. A moment's pause. 

" O Lawd, 
You heah dis gemman ax me dat jes' now, 
' What 's he to Boozer ' ? Doan he know, O Lawd, 
Dat Kaiser's boot-heel jes' been tinglin' up 
To stomp on Boozer? Doan he know de po', 
De feeble, an' de littlesome toddlin' chile 
Dat scream to Hebben when he tromp 'em down, 
Hab drug dat Bad Man right down off his throne 
To ebberlastin' torment? Glory, Lawd! 
De Lawd done drug de mighty from his seat! 
He done exalted dem ob low degree ! 
He sabe de spark from dem dat tromp it out! 
He sabe de seed from dem dat tromp it down! 
He sabe de lebben strugglin' in de lump ! 

He sabe de " 

Cheering, laughing, moving on, 
With cries of " Go it. Boozer! " the crowd swirled 
About his perch; but, as I passed, I saw 
A red-haired boy, who stood, and did not move, 

13 



But gazed and gazed, as if the old man's words 

Raised visions. In his shivering arms he held 

A struggling puppy; once I heard him say, 

" Down, Woodrow! " but he scarcely seemed to know 

He spoke. The stars paled slowly overhead ; 

The din increased ; the crowd surged ; but the boy 

Stood rapt. As I turned back once more, I saw 

Full morning on his face. And at the end 

Of our one down-town street, the laughing sun 

Came shouting up, belated, but most glad. 

November 11, 1918. 



14 




SOLDIERS, BEHOLD YOUR BEAUTY 

By Wilton Agnew Barrett 

i/gy^ ^ ^^ LOW, bugles, blow. 

Set the wild echoes calling — 
The stars and their troubles are fall- 
ing, falling, falling! 



Soldiers, behold your beauty. 



Roll, drums, roll, 

Fill the hills and hollows with thunder — 
The red stars have gone out, with their wonder, wonder, 
wonder! 

Soldiers, behold your beauty. 

With your bayonets aslant as you marched 

Were you like a moving ocean in the sun? 

With your bayonets fixed when you charged 

Were you like the pointed rain-lights of a storm? 

Beauty ringed you all about 

Wheeling her terrible rout, 

Terrible Beauty with her hair 

One great red flare 

Burning toward the heart of truth 

With the glory of your youth? 



Blow the bugle and roll the drum. 
Soldiers, behold your beauty. 

15 



There was the voice of the world calling to you. 

The voice of the world that was heaping the battle red ; 

The guns at dawn are shattering frost and dew, 

The guns at night are plowing and sowing the dead. 

Each man a seed for a spring to come. 

Blow the bugle and roll the drum. 

Each seed for a flower of truth. 

Through the furrows stride and come. 

Lie in a furrow and be dumb. 

The world is sowing youth! 

There was the shell-fire high against the sky, 

The thousand-fingered shrapnel hands 

Feeling for flesh and the warm flowers of blood. 

The little bullet hole like a red bud 

Upon the dusty forehead or the breast, 

The bayonet rent, the vermin, and the stench. 

The steel and gas-mown trench. 

There was the mighty going out of breath . . . 

Where your dead lay in still and level ranks 
Were they like an ocean sleeping in the sun? 
Beauty glimmered in the dews of death 
Like the sheen on windrows after storm? 
Beauty stood all shaken there 
Draping down her hair. 
Terrible Beauty in her truth 
Gazing with her burned-out eyes 
On the glory of your youth? 

Let not one corpse lie in the windless earth 
And not foretell to you a windy birth 
From out that death-impregnated black womb 
That is your beauty's tomb — 

16 



Birth of a spirit that shall cry, For what. 
For what, great God of Battles, what — 
But to show man a beauty that mu^st rot! 

Blow, bugles, it had to be, 

While the blood was going down to the sea. 

It is over, and man must climb 

Painfully back through the years, out of the slime. 

He must climb 

Till he comes to the place where he found the star 

And does not follow again the star 

But the truth in men as they are. 

It was not in his dream, it was not in his dream — 

Beauty so red was not in his dream. 

But beauty so red was lying in wait 

By his nature's gate 

That swings wider than his heart 

To let his lightnings dart — 

Show it to him, you beautiful ranks, 

With your blood-red art! 

Soldiers, behold your beauty. 

Behold your beauty, what it is — 
You who have looked on death by its tossing torch - 
Neither the sweet in woman's kiss. 
Neither the scorch. 
Nor hope nor glory nor anything 
That held a touch of starriness will be, 
Not even comfort as we 've thought of it, 
The thing it was, when you have learned. 
Answer your bugles, go and see. 
At the finish, enough if your travail has earned 
The power to love life utterly. 

17 



Blow, bugles, blow. 

Over the taken wall and away, beyond — 

Blow, bugles, blow. 

Run on, you beautiful troops, 

Till your fierce spirit droops 

In what vast realm of even plain 

And singing birds and waters and spring rain 

And unbefrenzied laughter and natural pain 

Such as the children of a new earth need — 

Falter not, you who bleed. 



Out of the trench they will come and speak the truth, 
The earth that was turned to mire they will then ap- 
praise, 
Name the beast that murdered glorious youth 
And chain his tired limbs to their wheel of days. 

They will fling the wreath from the bloody head of man, 
And strip his form and behold his little girth, 
Go back to the earth from which all things began. 
Forget the stars and fix their eyes on the earth. 

Spring shall come and the trees grow full of leaf, 
Man shall lie with woman and she increase, 
Autumn shall come and the term of life be brief, 
But man will mark that the leaves lie down in peace. 



18 




WILD WEATHER 

By Katharine Lee Bates 

■^ GREAT wind sweeps 

Across the world, hurling to heaps 
Of gilded rubbish crowns and thrones, 

mere gleam 
And flicker of dry leaves in its fierce 

path, 
A wind whose very wrath 
Springs from white Alpine crests of thought and dream* 

What sword can quell 

An unleashed tempest, and compel 

Hush to the thunder, patience to the storm? 

The maddened blast that buffets sea and land 

Blows under high command, 

Rending and riving only to transform. 

May its wild wings 

Burst the old tanglement of things. 

Those withered vines and brambles that enmesh 

The leaping foot ! May its rough flail destroy 

Hedges that limit joy, 

Leaving, like rain, a silvery earth and fresh! 

Faith shall not quail 
For broken branches. Of the gale 
Time is a strong corrival and will win; 
When hurricane has done its dread behest. 
And forests are at rest, 
His quiet hand will lead the sunshine in. 

19 




THE SOLDIERS SAY 

By William Rose Benet 

ERIOD. 

down. 



The gilt goes flaking 



The terrible rod is chipped to wire. 

The crown 
Of the talking god is rusted a bloody 

brown. 



Tinkhng it falls with tinny din on the stone. 
Splendorous walls gape ruin all their own. 
Funerals endlessly circle the throne. 

In solemn wise this Thing created law. 
Put out its eyes and gabbled that it saw, 
Drilled hordes in lies and loosed them for our awe. 

Period, to the sentence graved in gold 
By brighter blood than ever sparkled of old 
From hearts that withstood, from flesh could grip and 
hold! 

From slow, sure brains, that saw and felt and slew 
The devil that reigns no more — the devil we knew 
With loathsome stains impossible — and true. 

But who fed grist to that black-as-midnight mill 
Of the Hypnotist? Many. The evil will 
Made truth as mist. Now that the guns are still, 

20 



There windrows lie of the brave he reaped Uke grass! 

The sun is high. The shrivelled shadows pass. 

Red Mockery fades like a ghost from the glass. . . . 

Overpowered power that willed the world its den, 
The Sorcerer's tower blown into mist again! 
Kneel, in this hour, to Men and souls of men! 



21 



AMERICA'S HOMECOMING 

V^ By Archie Austin Coates 

RAMP, tramp of men, 
Men of the East and West, 
Men of the North and South, 
From Maine and New Mexico, 
(They had said we were dead 
heart!) 




at 



Tramp, tramp of men 

Back from the pits of France, 

Back from the shambled towns — 

Out of the rain of blood. 

Rumble and lunge of guns 

Blundering down the ways, 

Sounding in avenues. 

Guns that had dragged the roads 

Of France of the million scars, 

Sloughing and slipping — and sucking through the mud. 

Straining on their chains 

With the crashing trucks. . . . 

Guns triumphant from France, 

Sullen and grim — long stilled. 

Men pouring back from France. . . . 

(They had said we were cravens all!) 



Tramp, tramp of men. . . . 
Men — and more of them after! 
Back to the Western woods, 
Back to New Hampshire hills; 

22 



Southerners, Georgia-bred 
Soft in their speech and eyes, 
Coming — coming — and coming — 
Men, and more of them after! 
Men that Manhattan gave — 
Men from Chicago and Butte, 
Men coming back to their desks 
But nevermore bhnd to the stars. . . • 
Men of blood and dreams, 
Men of purpose and pride. 

The march of a miUion men. 

And a million more of them after! 

Flooding the Eastern coast 

Is American vision and strength. 

Tanned from the suns of the steppes. 

Ruddy cheeks from Verdun, 

Muscles made at Mihiel . . . 

(And they'd said we were soft from gold!) 

Tramp, tramp of men, 

Men and the smell of men, 

Swinging shoulders of men. 

The sun on their bayonets. 

Sun on their flags . . . and scars ! 

Songs and the laughs of men, 

Thoughtful eyes of men 

And the crude, broad jests of the male. 

Tramp, tramp of men 
Fresh from the Flemish hell. 
Hot racing blood from the West, 
Red with the flame of Youth, 
Red with success and joy. 

23 



Glory, America men, 
America's heart full of song; 
America's head in the stars! 
America's thmidering force 
Wreathed and victorious, grand! 
And they said we were dead of soul! 



24 




VICTORY 

By Grace Hazard Conkling 

^LL this is in our mind and mood: 
That Bruges has still a tower of bells ; 
That Venice tinted like her shells 
Shines on undimmed and unsubdued; 

That Alsace is a sunrise cloud 
Golden with glory of those men 

Who gave her back to France again ; 

That Lorraine speaks of France aloud; 

That Amiens stands against the night 
Picked out in stars ; that Paris lives ; 
That men no more like fugitives 
Need cringe and cower from the light! 

Of this and more our joy is made 
Who never in our joy forget 
That Belgium has not spoken yet. 
And for dead Rheims they have not paid! 



25 



FIFTH AVENUE AND GRAND STREET 

By Mary Carolyn Davies 



^H>4 It 's " Grand Street," I know well, my 



shirtwaist says, 
-l^^^^wJvt ^ "^^^ shoes, and hat, but then, she 

didn't hear, 
Or she pretended not, for we were laying 
Our coats aside, and as we were so near. 
She saw my pin like hers. And when girls are 
Wearing a pin these days that has a star, 
They smile out at each other. We did that, 
And then she did n't seem to see my hat. 

I sat beside her, handling gauze and lint, 

And thought of Jim. She thought of someone too; 

Under the smile there was a little glint 

In her eyelashes, that was how I knew. 

I wasn't crying — but I haven't any 

Pride in it ; we 've a better chance than they 

To take blows standing, for we Ve had so many. 

We two sat, fingers busy, all that day. 

I 'd spoken first, if I 'd known what to say. 
But she did soon, and after, told of him, 
The man she wore the star for, and the way 
He 'd gone at once. I bragged a bit of Jim ; 
Who would n't who had ever come to know 
Him? When the girls all rose to go. 



She stood there, shyly, with her gloves half on, 
Said, " Come to see me, won't you? " and was gone. 

I meant to call, too, I 'd have liked it then 

For we 'd a lot in common, with our men 

Across. But now that peace is here again 

And our boys safe, I can't help wondering — Well, 

Will she forget, and crawl back in her shell 

And if I call, say "Show this person out"? 

Or still be friendly as she was? I doubt 

If Grand will sit beside Fifth Avenue 

Again, and be politely spoken to. 

We 're sisters while the danger lasts, it 's true ; 
But rich and poor's equality must cease 
(For women especially), of course, in peace. 



27 




THE WORD OF THE WIND 

By Louise DriscoU 

IND that carries the sound of bells 
Far out over the sea, 
Why do you bring the word of tears 
With the word of victory? 

Alas for the httle gray houses 
And slender poplar trees! 

And women who seek what is not found 

By any victories! 

Wind that speaks to the wings of birds 
And knows how they find their way. 
Where did you find your sorrow, 
Who should be glad today? 

In the eyes of little children. 
And in the eyes of men 
Who have looked upon such things 
As must not come again. 

Wind that travels the four great roads 
And searches the hearts of men, 
Now that the war is over shall 
We not be glad again? 

But still there is sound of weeping. 
And women with frightened eyes 
Are asking many a question 
"Where there are no replies ; 

28 



And the broken slaves come creeping 
With terrible tales to tell, 
So pity must walk with gladness, 
Still close to the brink of Hell. 

Wind that has spoken to all the flags 
And carried the souls of the dead, 
Take our pledge to the Freemen, 
They shall be comforted ! 

Over the flags and the tumult. 
This is the one glad voice. 
When Freemen speak to Freemen, 
Then may the world rejoice! 

Then shall the weary captives 

Lift up their heads and cheer. 

The women's tears shall be wiped away, 

And children unlearn fear. 

This is the cry of Nations 
As broken chains release. 
One red word for Freedom, 
And one white word for Peace! 



29 




THE NEW DAY 
By Fenton Johnson 

From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince 
of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. 

Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was 
drowned by the happy shouting of the people. 

From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this 
chant from the throats of white-robed angels: 

f'^^IISEr^r^LOW your trumpets, little children I 
From the East and from the West, 
From the cities in the valley, 
From God's dwelhng on the mountain. 
Blow your blast that Peace might 

know 
She is Queen of God's great army. 

With the crying blood of millions 

We have written deep her name 

In the Book of all the Ages; 

With the lilies in the valley, 

With the roses by the Mersey, 

With the golden flower of Jersey 

We have crowned her smooth young temples. 

Where her footsteps cease to falter 

Golden grain will greet the morning, 

Where her chariot descends 

Shall be broken down the altars 

Of the gods of dark disturbance. 

Nevermore shall men laiow suffering, 

Nevermore shall women wailing 

Shake to grief the God of Heaven. 

From the East and from the West, 

30 



From the cities in the valley, 

From God's dwelling on the momitain, 

Little children, blow your trumpets! 

From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I 
heard the music of the old slave songs. 

I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly 
fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. 

I heard the plea of blood stained men of dusk and the 
crimson in my veins leapt furiously. 

Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought 

In No Man's Land that peace might come again! 

Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave 

Red blood to save the freedom of the world ! 

We were not free, our tawny hands were tied; 

But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared 

Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. 

So when the bugle blast had called us forth 

We went not like the surly brute of yore 

But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world 

The freedom that we never knew nor shared. 

These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down 

As Samson in the temple of the gods; 

Unloosen them and let us breathe the air 

That makes the goldenrod the flower of Clirist. 

For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, 

Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself ; 

And now we ask of thee our liberty. 

Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes. 

I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over 
No Man's Land. 



31 




THE DUAL BIRTH 

By Richard Butler Glaenzer 

T the rumor of truce a glory of joy 

broke loose, 
A jubilant frenzy that made the earth 

tremble, 
That surged to the stars, snuffing out 
Mars. 

Tension found its excuse, reserve forgot to dissemble; 
Youth snapped convention's noose, old age grew young : 
The rumor was false, but true was the victory sung. 

False was the rumor, but real the triumph behind it; 

The false became true, for sterling the die that de- 
signed it. 

Then rapture took wing and rose on victorious pinions 

Whose flutter was music to the hearts which long had 
been breaking. 

Whose rush was a gentle caress to the bruised and the 
aching. 

Whose thunder was doom to the monarch of might and 
his minions. 

Oh, rapture took wing ; exultant, triumphant, it mounted ; 

Defeats were forgotten; only the victory counted: 

Not only victory over the brutal demented, 

Si 



But victory by the crusaders, America, France, 
England and Italy, all ancient friction repented, 
Now one with a cause where reason was one with ro- 
mance. 
True was the truce. God grant the truth of the peace ! 
God grant true vision to power, true courage to right! 
God hasten the dawn of the hour when hatred shall 

cease ! 
God end forever the nightmare that makes day night! 
God close and lock and seal forever the door 
On this terrible Hundred Years' War crushed into four! 

Body and soul the world of our fathers is changing: 
Systems, that fettered like ice, like ice in the spring 
Melt and are gone ; free currents rise rearranging 
Frontiers wherein true freedom shall be king. 
Man is reborn, re-souled. God make him worth 
The joy and anguish of this dual birth. 



8S 




NOVEMBER ELEVENTH 

By Elizabeth Hanly 

THOUSAND whistles break the 

bonds of sleep 
With swift exultant summons wild 

and shrill; 
Impassioned tongues of flames toward 
heaven leap 
To tell us peace has come. The guns are still. 

A thousand flags have blossomed in the air 
Like poppies in a garden by the sea. 
Beyond the eastern hills a golden flare 
Foretells the day that broke on Calvary. 

Long-darkened Liberty uplifts once more 
Her torch on Belgium, Poland and Alsace 
And Flanders — on each desecrated shore. 
Slow dawns the sun; and on my mother's face 
The look, I think, that Mary must have worn 
In Galilee on Resurrection morn. 



S4 




BUILDERS OF BABEL 

By Elias Lieberman 

HE builders of Babel have babbled 
their last for the ears of men; 

And their Tower of Curses has fallen, 
never to rise again. 

All through the blowy darkness they 
toiled at the hideous thing, 
While the bull-frogs croaked their chorus and the 
treacherous bat spread wing. 

With crumbling brick they fashioned, with rotting wood 

they wrought 
A Tower of Lies in the darkness, swift as a sinful 

thought. 

With hammer and saw they builded, with cunning and 

skill they planned 
A Tower of Lust in the darkness to dominate all the 

land. 

And it seemed to rise with their toiling, to rear its head 

to the skies, 
While the owl in the brooding darkness pierced the air 

with his cries. 

A wolf howled a dirge . . . and ravens circled the 

menacing head 
That rose in the wind-swept darkness like a ghost from 

the tombs of the dead. 

35 



But neither the bat nor the ravens, the frogs nor the 

screeching owl, 
Nor the blows of a thousand hammers, nor the plaint of 

the wolf-hound's howl 

Seemed half as weird in the darkness as the ape-like men 
who swung 

From pillar and ledge and girder, cursing with blas- 
phemous tongue. 

And the noise of their toil in the darkness, the welding 

of iron bars 
And the clatter of bolt and rivet went echoing up to the 

stars. 

But what is the use of iron and even of steel white-blue 
When the brick at the base is crumbling and the wood 
of the walls wears through? 

And what can avail the builders, though ever so hard 

they plod. 
When the souls of women and children bear witness 

against them to God? 

A flash from the sullen heavens, a bolt from the angry 

skies 
And the Tower of Hatred toppled never again to rise. 

The builders of Babel have babbled their last for the 

ears of men ; 
And their Tower of Curses has fallen, never to rise 

again. 



36 




SEW THE FLAGS TOGETHER 

' \ By Vachel Lindsay 

RE AT wave of youth, ere you be 
spent 

Sweep over every monument 

Of caste, smash every high imperial 
wall 

That stands against the new World 
State, 

And overwhelm each ravening hate, 
And heal, and make blood-brothers of us all. 
Nor let your clamor cease 
Till ballots conquer guns. 
Drum on for the world's peace 
Till the Tory power is gone. 
Envenomed lame old age 
Is not our heritage, 
But Springtime's vast release, and flaming dawn. 

Peasants, rise in splendor 
And your accounting render, 
Ere the lords unnerve your hand! 
Sew the flags together. 
Do not tear them down. 
Hurl the worlds together. 
Dethrone the wallowing monster 
And the clown. 

Resolving only that shall grow 
In Balkan furrow, Chinese row, 
That blooms, and is perpetually young, 
That only be held bright and clear 

37 



That brings heart-wisdom year by year 

And puts this thrilling word upon the tongue: 

" The United States of Europe, Asia and the World'* 

" Youth will be served," now let us cry. 

Hurl the referendum. 

Your fathers, five long years ago, 

Resolved to strike, too late. 

Now 

Sun-crowned crowds 

Innumerable, 

Of boys and girls 

Imperial, 

With your patchwork flag of brotherhood 

On high, 

With every silk 

In one flower-banner whirled, — 

Rise, 

Citizens of one tremendous state. 

The United States of Europe, Asia and the World, 

The dawn is rose-dressed and impearled. 

The guards of privilege are spent. 

The blood-fed captains nod. 

So Saxon, Slav, French, German, 

Rise, 

Yankee, Chinese, Japanese, 

All the lands, all the seas. 

With the blazing rainbow flag unfurled. 

Rise, 

Rise, 

Take the sick dragons by surprise. 

Highly establish, 

In the name of God, 

The United States of Europe, Asia and the World. 



A MEASURE OF THE IMMEASURABLE 
By Benjamin R. C. Low 




^mS»^^^^^ wo boys on crutches — leg off at the 
knee — 
In a quick crowd that squandered 

victory. 
Above, bare branches and November 
glow — 
The Twilight of the Gods : tin horns below. 

Saint Michael, done by Raphael, drives down 

On ugly Satan, fallen, all a-frown. 

Against good rock. He might be crawling there. 

Slimed from the sea-caves, not star-gleaned from air. 

But note his trident, supernatural strong : 

The height of God is proved in each bent prong. 

Two boys on crutches; not November skies. 

But great Saint Michael's glory in their eyes: 

A look, through rifts, where blinding flower-buds blow — 

The uncut floor of Heaven they know — they know; 

A look beyond raw mountain peaks of pain 

To that old Dragon quaking earth again. 

He reckoned with the numbered names of things. 

Telling his beads on scientific strings. 

It looped no Beauty or Divinity, 

That abacus, that wicked rosary. 

39 



Then, in the dawnlight of his chosen day, 
Waked, armed, thronged, sang, fought, bled, killed, con- 
quered — they. 

• •••••• 

The thick cloud clears, the dreadful storm bears by: 
Old stars, still, still, burn true; old faiths hold high. 
Nay! — voluble crowd, but there was Victory! 
The height of God — those legs off at the knee. 



40 




THE WORLD'S PEACE 

(To the Spirit of F. E. D.) 
By Edgar Lee Masters 

LORY to Joffre, glory to Haig, glory 

to Foch, 
Glory to Diaz, glory to Pershing for 

strength in battle 
For the glory of England, glory of 

Italy, glory of France, 
And the imperishable glory of America I 

But glory forever to Albert upon whose throne 
The foot of the giant Blunderbore tripped. 
And to Lloyd George, England's servant, glory; 
And to Clemenceau, faithful commoner of France. 
And glory to him who sounded the trumpet of Time 
As Luther did : We can do naught else. 
Here we stand, God help us! Glory to him 
Who rang the bell of Philadelphia, 
Not to our land, but to the world, proclaiming 
Liberty to the world and the peoples thereof! 

But glory and memory to the unseen, to those 
Who seem to sleep, yet live 
Through us and in us to instruct, command: 
To Milton, to Mazzini, Garibaldi, 
To Mirabeau, Voltaire, Rousseau, 
To Franklin, Jefferson, Paine, 
To Washington, to Jackson, to Lincoln 

41 



Through whom governments of the people have multi- 
plied 
And have not perished from the earth. 

But glory to all who strove in the realm of thought 

For liberty and peace and the right of life ; 

To those defeated, buffeted, misunderstood 

For the sake of Liberty. 

To Adam Smith, Henry George, Karl Marx, 

Shelley orating in Dublin and hooted, 

Camille Desmoulins firing and leading the mob; 

To all the world's fools, passionate hearts. 

Lovers of men. 

Upon whose cofiins rattled the clods 

Of the world's contempt. 

But glory to the nameless millions in all ages 

Who died to set us free, 

The infinite dust in the firmament of Time 

Through whom the Eternal Light 

Reflects its splendor to our eyes. 

And without whom the Eternal Light 

Had not lighted the darkness of the world! 

Eternal glory and memory to these — the youths. 

The countless millions 

Who sleep on the battlefields of Europe, 

And over this rolling globe of toil and hope! 

But glory to the immortal human heart 
Which fails not, is not cast down. 
Does not surrender, which flames forever 
The flame of liberty, consumed and yet remade. 
To the spirit of the human heart all glory 
Whose love feeds on the Past, 

42 



And drinks from sacred fountains, 
And dreams of heaven on earth; 
Sustains and soothes and builds, 
Transmits its treasures, is immortal 
Through hearts to be. 

And O ye to whom this day of tumult 
Will be the silence of the written page. 
Remember us! 

Be ye swift runners with the torch 
We hand to you! 



46 



NOVEMBER ELEVENTH 

By Ruth Comfort Mitchell 

W(- ^ .XP '^l^T^J ^ ^^^ three slim young wraiths that 
U met in the heart of a great play- 

'^p^I ground, 

/ jUriVI ^^(j two of them watched the shining 



. .Nfw^ ,u^v iW| , sports in the fields that ringed them 

round, 
But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far- 
off sound. 

" Listen," he cried, " they know, down there! Oh, don*t 
you hear the bells?" 

" Not I," said one with a wise young smile. " I used to 
hear the shells. . . . 

Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dar- 
danelles." 

" I from the Marne," the third one sighed, " but these 

are only names. 
Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes 

and fames! 
Here is the host of Golden Lads who play at golden 

games." 

But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent 

with an anxious frown, — 

44 



" It 's the curfew bell ! I hear them cheer ! It 's my 

little own home town! 
I hear my Dad! I can almost see — " and his eager 

gaze plunged down. 

" Soon, mon ami,'' soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these 

teasing dreams will cease! 
One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the 

Golden Fleece!" 
Still the new boy turned his white young face from the 

Land of the Great Release — 

" But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the 
terms of peace,'' 



45 




ON THE DAY OF ACHIEVEMENT 
By Edward J. O'Brien 

S their body was woven of stars, and 
their spirit was woven of light, 

So shall our body and blood be woven 
of day and of night. 

Day of the spirit's conquest, night of 
remembered pain. 
Earth and wind and water, flame and flowers and rain. 

Body and blood in the image of those who died for the 
gleam. 

Drifting dust like they, but drifting dust with a dream, 

Weaving the Mystical Rose out of laughter and labor 
and tears, 

Apart from them through the days, but one with them 
in the years. 

We are their will made flesh, and we are stern to com- 
mand 

That those whom they went forth to slay shall not rise 
transformed in our land. 

One with those who went down through the iron years to 

death, 
They rise again in our dream, as their dust is stirred with 

our breath, 

46 



And out of that generous dust the years shall blow not 

away 
Stirs the voice of undying youth, arisen once more to 

say: 

'* Judge not that ye be not judged; we carried the torch 
to the goal. 

The goal is won: guard the fire: it is yours: but remem- 
ber our soul 

Breathes through the life that we saved, when our lives 
went out in the night : 

Your body is woven of ours : see that the torch is ahght." 



47 



TO PEACE WITH VICTORY 

A By Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 



?^C%^/^J^ COULD not welcome you, O longed- 




A. 



for peace, 



^^ Unless your coming had been heralded 
^(^ By victory! The legions who have 
bled 



M« '^9> Had elsewise died in vain for our 



release. 



But now that you come sternly, let me kneel 
And pay my tribute to the myriad dead, 
Who counted not the blood that they have shed 
Against the goal their valor shall reveal. 

Ah ! what had been the shame, had all the stars 
And stripes of our brave flag drooped still unfurled, 
When the fair freedom of the weary world 
Hung in the balance. Welcome then the scars! 

Welcome the sacrifice! With lifted head 
Our nation greets dear Peace as honor's right; 
And ye the Brave, the Fallen in the fight, 
Had ye not perished, then were honor dead! 



48 




THE NEW JESTER 
By Edwin Arlington Robinson 

OU that in vain would front the com- 
ing order 
With eyes that meet forlornly what 

they must, 
And only with a furtive recognition 
See dust where there is dust, — 
Be sure you like it always in your faces. 

Obscuring your best graces, 

Blinding your speech and sight. 

Before you seek again your dusty places 

Where the old wrong seems right. 

Longer ago than cave-men had their changes 

Our fathers may have slain a son or two, 

Discouraging a further dialectic 

Regarding what was new; 

And after their unstudied admonition. 

Occasional contrition 

For their old-fashioned ways 

May have reduced their doubts, and in addition 

Softened their final days. 



Farther away than feet shall ever travel 
Are the vague towers of our unbuilded state; 
But there are mightier things than we to lead us, 
That will not have us wait. 
And we go on with none to tell us whether 
Or not we 've each a tether 

49 



Determining how fast or far we go; 
And it is well, since we must go together, 
That we are not to know. 

If the old wrong and all its injured glamour 

Haunts you by day and gives your night no peace. 

You may as well, agreeably and serenely. 

Give the new wrong its lease; 

For should you nourish a too fervid yearning 

For what is not returning. 

The vicious and unfused ingredient 

May give you qualms — and one or two concerning 

The last of your content. 



50 



IN THE DAWN 

By Odell Shepard 



ing like a universal hymn 
/{ Under oceans, over mountains, to the 
world's remotest rim. 



Light! At last the deadly arrows of 
the Archer find their mark; 
Loathsome forms are shuddering backward to the shelter 
of the dark. 

Hope ! The nations stand together on the borders of a 

dawn 
That shall dim the noonday splendor of the ages that 

are gone. 

Peace, and light, and hope of morning! Let the belfries 

reel and sway 
While the world is swinging swiftly out of darkness into 

day. 

Let the forests of the steeples, blown by one compelling 

wind, 
Swing and sway and clash together all the songs of all 

mankind. 

While we roll up out of darkness, out of death, out of 

the gloom 
Of a blighted planet plunging blindly downward to its 

doom. 

$1 



Into light beyond all dreaming, into peace, good-will 

towards men, 
Hope beyond the poet's vision, joy beyond the prophet's 

ken. 

Let us pile a fire, O brothers, ere the shades have shrunk 

away. 
Lest dark memories should mock us in the beauty of 

the day. 

Dotard thrones of crumbling empires, broken sceptres, 

twisted crowns. 
Tattered robes of state that wakened terror in the hearts 

of clowns — 

Pile the fire — -hut and palace, dens of vice and halls of 

crime. 
Prison-houses of the spirit, moated dungeons caked with 

slime. 

Cynic lies of politicians, secret treaties, pacts of shame . . . 
Heap them high and higher, give them to the purifying 
flame! 

As for those who stained the sea ways, fouled the earth 

and soiled the skies. 
Sneering down what men hold holy — we have crushed 

them in their lies, 

Sent them reeling, blind and broken, back into their 

noisome lair, 
To their nest of hissing serpents. Let them writhe and 

fester there. 

52 



<xod has had them in derision. 'Neath the laughter of 

the sky 
Let them pass miharmed, mihindered, till they earn the 

right to die. 

But all else that skulks in shadow, let it burn! O pile 

the fire! 
Half of history is dying. It shall have a goodly pyre. 

We shall cleanse this blood-stained planet of its foul- 
ness and disgrace 

Till it lifts its head in heaven, looks the grave stars in 
the face. 



Now at last we see our country standing in her place 

with men; 
Never shall the seas divide us from the world's great 

need again. 

That old dream is gone forever that we dwell, serene 

and far, 
With God's special smile to light us, on some steady 

separate star. 

All we are the Old World made us. Where it lost we 

learned to gain — 
Built our triumph on its failures, based our joy upon 

its pain. 

Greece foretold us, Rome foresaw us, gave us beauty, 

wisdom, law; 
France gave vision ; England made us strong to win the 

good we saw. 

53 



Weary centuries have struggled upward on a stony way 
Just to set the torch of freedom where it flames aloft 
to-day. 

Shall the heritors of ages fail them in their mighty trust, 
Let their beacon pine and dwindle, quench its beauty in 
the dust? 

Rather, we must hold it higher, shake its splendor 

through the sky, 
Searching out each nook of shadow till the things of 

darkness die. 

All the old forlorn lost causes, every fair forbidden 

dream. 
And the prophet's holy vision and the poet's beckoning 

gleam. 

All the hope of subject peoples, all the dreams of the 

oppressed, 
Must be ours — our hope, our vision. We can never 

stay or rest 

Till the whole round earth together, to the last isle of 

the sea, 
All our many-languaged kindred, shall be free as we 

are free. 



We are standing in the dawning, in the early dews of 

time, 
On a height the strength of ages has but just availed to 

climb; 

54 



But our gaze is toward a future higher, fairer, mist- 

encurled, 
Soaring starward through the twilight o'er the bases of 

the world. 

Forward, then, and onward, upward, toward the kingly 

days to be! 
All the nations climbing with us, one glad confraternity! 

Other days have had their glory, but these days of 

triumph are 
Much the proudest days that ever dawned upon this 

ancient star. 

Rome was mighty, Greece was glorious, great were 

Thebes and Babylon, 
But no dream like ours was ever dreamed beneath an 

earher sun. 

Wondrous days to be alive in, when with furious might 

and main 
God is fashioning the future on the anvil-horns of pain ! 

Every life, however humble, takes a touch of the sublime 
From the light that bathes our sun-washed pinnacle of 
dawning time. 

All the issues of the future on our present courage wait 
As we step forth, calm, undaunted, dare defeat, accept 
our fate. 



55 



ALTARS OF VICTORY 

By George Sterling 

^^^^^^^HESE are they that shook when the 
"^ feet of War went by. 

|fJA^ The Hun and his hate have rent their 
^ r/ vi stones asunder. 

/\ Over them the cannon set once a steely 
sky — 
Ruined town and fortress with names of battle-thunder. 

Douaumont, Noyon, Camhrai, Montfaucon, 
Verdun, Aulynoye and Gouzeaucourt! 

To the sound of mighty trampling and shock of iron 

seas, 
Their roofs went down and their walls were beaten 

under. 
Babylon and Tyre had no such end as these, 
Ruined town and fortress with names of battle-thunder. 

Soissons, Thaumont, Nonsard, Revillon, 
Avion, Grandpre, Peronne and Roye! 

Cities of destruction, ravaged but august. 
Their glory was not for the Teuton horde to plunder — 
Goals of huge hopes, mounds of immortal dust. 
Ruined town and fortress with names of battle-thunder. 

56 



Routers J Laon, Arras, Courticon, C holler ange, 
Ronnsoy and Morlancourt! 

Over their thresholds young feet shall go again, 
Safe from the mire of the Hun's colossal blunder. 
Splendor is on them by reason of their slain — 
On ruined town and fortress with names of battle- 
thunder. 

Audenarde,, Hauhourdin, Tournoi, Le Nouvion, 
Thourout, Consenvoye and Sivry-sur-Marnet 

Of the world's deeper music part now forevermore. 
Their fame shall ring afar in shining courts of wonder — 
Echoes cast eternal from sounding walls of war, 
O ruined town and fortress with names of battle-thunder! 

Avion, Grandpre Peronne and Roye! 
Charleroi, Longuyon and Hourdomont! 



57 




3z: 



PEACE 
By Ridgely Torrence 

HEAR in the night the echoing 
trouble of multiple drums; 
Flutes lift their piercing fountains; a 
shadowy army comes, 



; iwl JBLiwij The soldiers, the sailors, the banners 
and the brave. 




For we have had a victory and they have had a grave. 

I see in clouds the martyrs who burn above the mire, — 
The flowerlike, the towerlike, whom Love led through 

the fire. 
They die like their deaths before me, beneath a broken 

sky; 
They light earth's bloody pastures, I hear their dreadful 

cry. 

The house not made with hands once more is overthrown ; 
The old men's vision failed, the young men's dream has 

flown. 
They turned upon their brothers, how shall they atone? 
Awake! Behold the field. For they have slain their 

own. 



58 




RETURN OF THE SOLDIER 

,\ By Louis Untermeyer 

HE last flash . . . and the hideous 
attack 

Dies like a wisp of storm-discour- 
aged flame; 

And soon these battered heroes will 
come back 

The same, yet not the same. 

They who have bandied words in No Man's Land 
Will never be the old and abject crowd, 
They will not grovel and they will not stand 
What used to keep them cowed. 

They will be dumb no longer, they will speak 
In tones they learned beneath a blood-red sun; 
A constant menace to the cowardly meek 
And to all wars but one. 

Strengthened to fight what all the world abhors, 
Hypocrisy and squalor and disease, 
They will attain, even through war on wars. 
What they had lost in peace. 



59 



THE WAR AT HOME 

vV By Private Willard Wattles 

OD of our fathers, with bowed heads 

we come 
In this glad hour when the unscathed 

rejoices, 
Strike Thou each Httle boaster awed 

and dumb 
Before the flame of Pentecostal voices. 
Our youth has stormed the hosts of hell and won ; 
Yet we who pay the price of their oblation 
Know that the greater war is just begun 
Which makes humanity the nations' Nation. 




60 




THE NEW VICTORY 

■^ By Margaret Widdemer 

ICTORY comes; 

Not hard and laughing as she came of 
yore, 

Her scarlet arms heaped high with 
spoils of war; 

Her slaves, to beating drums. 

Low-bent and bearing gifts . . . 
The black cloud lifts. 
And, lifting our long-weary eyes to see. 
There dawns upon our sight. 
Majestic, crowned with light. 
Stern and so quiet — she must keep her strength 
To build at weary length 

Over again, our scarred and shattered world — 
This, then, ah, this is she. 
Our graver Victory. 

She follows down the furrows 
War-turned across the world. 
Where still the spent shell burrows, 
Where the black shot was hurled. 
And sows the wheat and corn. 
The world, from anguish born 
Again from its old grief. 
Looks up, athirst 
And hungering. 
Daring to dream again 
Of flowers unhurt, and unstained rain 
And love and Spring: 

61 



Knowing that she shall build each place accursed 

Into a thing that may some day again 

Be our once land of comfort and delight, 

Of ease and mockery . . . 

Even f orgetf ulness : 

Even the gift to bless. 

Victory paces slowly through the lands : 

No lash is in her hands, 

She builds herself no triumph-arch for cover, 

No common marble toy — 

She is too great for joy. 

She who upbuilds 

Each little shattered home 

And brings men back to it: and lover gives to lover. 

And to the shattered soul its faith again, 

And to the world continuance of God- — 

How should our praise for her 

In high crowned buildings stand — oh, how be pent 

In built or written thing? 

The stable world itself is her great monument! 



63 



VICTORY— WITHOUT PEACE 
By Clement Wood 



once 



■^i^^v^jvg; r^ HE slaughter-bugles screamed 

" '*<\^™^^» "* more, 

Over the patchwork lands of men, 
And scattered, sword-hewn empires 

tore 
Each other's greedy hearts again — 



One with a black and boastful greed. 
Seeking a red supremacy; 
The other with a mumbled creed 
That it was armed to make men free. 

Each steppe and pampa woke to flame 
And joined the berserker advance; 
From wild forgotten roads they came. 
For the world's roads all led to France. 

And now no more the hail of steel 
Tortures the lines of brown and gray. . . . 
The brief, joy-mad processions reel 
And drop . . . and it is peace, men say. 

Peace? When wherever men are found 

The victors cry, "But just so free!" 

And reddened banners spring from the ground. 

For freer red supremacy. . . . 

A hollow shell of victory, 
With war still wTithing at its heart; 

63 



A clipped and gelded liberty, 
Striving to force its chains apart! 

Yet solvent love is not too far, 
If men grow wise, or mobs stay kind; 
And we could calm this troubled star. 
Its singing rapture unconfined. 

Now take your choice, O you who hoard 
Frail-fingered power, weak lordly breath; 
Young freedom, or the age-scarred sword. 
Which leaves no peace on earth — but death. 



64 




WHAT GREW IN JOAN'S GARDEN 
By Annette Wynne 

HAT grew in Joan's Garden? 
(Gather up your swords and cornel) 
What grew in Joan's garden? 
(Calls the clarion; sounds the drum.) 

Daisies, pansies, Flemish lilies, 
(Warriors, rise ye — row on row!) 

Red-hearts, stars, and daffodillies, 

(High the dark waves ebb and flow). 

Safely trellised, green shoots nestle 
(Shout, O Voices, in her ear!) 
Farther, higher, strong boughs wrestle, 
(On, O on, the day is here!) 

What grew in Joan's garden. 
In the dawn-sky do ye see? 
What grew in Joan's garden? 
— God, and France, and Victory! 



65 




THE DAY 

{November 11, 1918) 
By Witter Bynner 

OT as they planned it or will plan 
again. 

Those captains whose command was 
forged in hell. 

Not as they promised for their terrible 

Obedient horde. Teuton and Saracen, 
Bulgar and Slav, not as they dreamed it then. 
Masters of might with sobs for paeans to swell 
Their darkening sway, but like a far-off bell 
Undoing night, the day has come for men. 

The people's day has dawned, a deeper sky 
Than any day that ever rose from sea. 
And more than any captain dared is won. 
And this great light that opens carries high 
Justice that none had dreamed, not even we 
Who still are blind awhile, facing the sun. 




THE LIVING 

November 11, 1918 
By Caroline Giltinan 

, LAUGHING, try to sing my joy — 
For France, dear France, is free! 
(A widow clasps her trembling hands 
And smiles, through tears, at me.) 

\ I gather close the tricolor, 
hZl (Oh! visioned, murdered child!) 
Embracing so the men of France 
Who, through the years, have filed 
Across the fields and back again — 
It was not all " Advance! " 
Retreating, one long agony 
While keeping faith with France. 
The ravaged girls and women 
Whose eyes were once so clear — 
I sing my song the louder, 
Their story not to hear. 

If grief be ours, we may rejoice: 

Be mute, unless you know 

The happiness and anguish 

These people undergo. 

The fighting has been ended 

And fear of further loss; 

But France can see It hanging there — 

A Figure on a Cross. 

For France — France knows what Mary felt 

And John (who loved her Son) 

When Jesus died, a Sacrifice. . . . 

Another victory won! 

67 




SUNSET 

By James Oppenheim 

I 

1 

OW is sunset, 

The nightfall lightens 

Over the funeral pyre of the Day. . . 

On a balcony we 

Sweep the round world whose rim 

Is edged with fire. . . . 



Unstirring cumulus cloud 

Is purple and scarlet . . . bearded cloud of the west 

Is incandescent. ... 

Beyond and below 

Our planet is a fire, and the flaming 

Makes our sky a glory over the dark green Earth. . . . 

A painted glory : 

No wind breathes : 

No tree stirs : 

The world of life for a breathless moment 

Is ordered and is art : 

But we live. . . . 



Inarticulate, stripped of desire, 

Motionless, 

We yet live. . . . 

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Our lifted faces are lighted, 

Our bodies are torches touched to the fixed fire of sunset 

And kindled with the unbuming flame of dream. . . . 

We see the little cottage 
Painted among the painted trees: 
We see the clover fields, lush green. 
The western hills, dark blue, 
The wild windless garden. 
Gray stones. . . . 

Daring to tap and crack this glass of silence 
A robin tweets. . . . 

3 

Earth never seemed capable of this : 

Her beautiful hours 

Sweet with orchards or rough with rain-storm 

Or grave with stars 

Came with the ease of familiar things 

Woven of the weather of the human heart: 

But this 

Is not of the Earth we know : 

And our eyes see 

A life or a death beyond and behind, within and without 

Our life. . . . 

We live, but neither memory 
Nor yet vision 

Warms the naked moment. . . . 
We merely breathe, gaze and wonder. . . . 
We only know 

That the world of human life is a capsule 
Floating in vaster existences, 

69 



And that the melting of it 
Would be no death 
But an emergence. 



II 



Earth, over her rims. 

Is a fire. . . . 

The hmnan world, builded by hands, 

Ivied by ages. 

The human soul, born out of nature. 

And in splendor of superstition 

And tear-bought wisdom 

Grown rich and weary, 

Are at end of Day, 

In sunset. ... 

The magic capsule 

Glowing inside with cathedrals and coHseums, 

Sounding with an endless song. 

Lighted with heroes and with gods. 

With dreams swaying crowds, 

Is melting. ... 

The world begun by Egypt and Mesopotamia, 
Built temple-high by Greece, 
And pinnacled by Europe, 
Dissolves. . . . 



We did not know 

That the accustomed, the fixed eternal, 
Could become a phantom 
And fade in dying light of its own sun. . . . 

70 



No dream of Doomsday 
Could forebode the doom. ... 

But it is here, with the whole planet 

Raimeiited in flame . . . 

The whole planet 

On its funeral pyre . . . 

And the sun sets 

That rose on Pharoah, 

And the day ends 

That dawned with Homer. 



It ends, yet the spared live; 

They live. 

But neither memory nor vision 

Warms the naked moment ; 

They merely breathe, gaze and wonder . . 

And the doom faUs 

On silence. 

Ill 

1 

They live, and gazing 

In this visionary hour 

They see a trace of the world outside 

The dissolving world. . . . 

And they know 

That world has been slowly dawning 
And the light of its growing dawn 
Mingles with this sunset 
And gives it this breathless splendor. . . . 

71 



That dawn rose 

In brains like Galileo's, 

Its light gathered 

In spirits like Darwin's; 

Its kindled sun 

Burnt out the old sun, 

And the dying creatures of that sun 

Sink in the beams of the new human fire-god. 



Those beams shall break 

On the young green of a new spring, 

With the nations gathered in a single song 

And the bright intelligence 

Of a new youth raying through the human spirit . . . 

With a new self 

For each soul that wins it, orbed hke a fresh-born planet, 

And swinging in harmony with all other planets; 

With a new sky 

Storm-cleansed of old demons and gods, 

With a new Earth 

For new adventures. . . . 



Those beams shall break 

On the second Day of Man: 

But in this hour 

Of awful sunset 

We do not know that Day : 

We only know 

Our dissolving world floats in a vaster existence, 

And this dissolution 

Is no death, 

But an emergence. 

72 



PEACE AT MORNING 

By Dana Burnet 
I 



^ WAKE at the touch of morning; 

^j and the City is shaken with a Song! 

icf Not rapture smoothed and rhythmed, 

/^liV ^^* *^^ ^^^ P^^^ ^^ horns, gongs, 
^^^ whistles, bells and drum-beats. 



au"! 



Bass-notes of guns and ecstasy of bells — 
Bells above all, 

Bells bright as water tumbling down a chasm, 
Bells like the lost chime of the hanomers of Babel! 
Bells tracing arabesques of laughter on the discord of 
the dawn! 

I hear a voice in the shadow crying: 
" They have signed the armistice; the war is done." 
And I lean from my window and see the crowds surg- 
ing below me, with white hands thrust up as though 
to shake a music from the stars ! 
Women with vivid faces, marching, singing. 
Dark men of labor, carrying burnished little pails, 
That make quick points in the kindling street. . . . 
These will not work in the shipyards today, nor in the 

munition factories. 
They will go through the town in long procession, 

shouting and beating their little pails — 
Yet solemn, too, remembering the dead. 
Remembering the countless and unutterable dead! 

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II 

Light 

Runs on the roofs of the City with a scarlet foot, and 

the ways of the City are passionate with people 

trampling out a song! 
The Day is like a courier spurring a bright horse, that 

leaps resplendent out of the East and flings the news 

before : 
" Thei^ have signed the armistice in the Forest of 

Compiegne. . . ." 
Now triumph wakes, and each articulate spire 
Clashes its silver on the answering din — 
The sun has thrust a ruby finger into the mist, and tears 

it, and the banners show through, 
So all the house walls are in color, and the avenues are 

tremulous with flame! 
Trade turns no wheel and profit is abhorred ; 
Stout Business has forgot its clamoring belly, 
For once grows ponderously human, and being pricked 

with madness. 
Decks out the slender arrowy towers of its Temple 
With ribbons of ticker-tape, so all the peaks 
Are caught in cobwebs. ... 
Rolls the sound along 
Like some tempestuous Te Deum played on the great 

pipes of the town 
By multi-fingered Chaos pulling blindly at the stops. 
The ships that lie in the harbor — daubed sea-cockles 
With grotesque bodies and gray guns poking overside — 
Blow their white breath into the blue air 
And swell the sonorous choir. No more they need go 

twisting 
Through wreck-strewn waters, or run with smothered 

ports, 

74 



Hugging the darkness, cursing the moon in God's hand. 

Dreading the phosphorus that burns their bows 

As a necklace burns a woman's throat — 

None gladder than the ships. 

None more joyful than the ships. 

That pen has scratched paper in the hushed railway 

carriage 
In the great Forest at Compiegne yonder. . . . 

Ill 

I stand before a window in a lifted wall and the bonds 

of the horizon are broken, 
I look into the bowl of the distance and behold a great 

matter ; 
I am aware of trifles. 
I see the long quays at Bordeaux, where the wine-carts 

creak so heavily ; 
And the smooth gray stream alert with ships. 
And the graceful snarl of rigging on the skyline. 
I see the old gate through which innumerable days have 

trailed their evening draperies. . . . 
Nearby sits a handsome officer under an awning; 
He is reading the news, and drinking a glass of red 

wine at a blue-topped table, 
And occasionally warming himself in the voluptuous 

glances 
Of the slim black-eyed girl who brings his silver. . . . 
I see the groups of soldiers in their faded uniforms, 
Some whole, some stamping about on wooden pegs, 
With bits of precious ribbon on their breasts. 
I see the flower venders selling flowers in the street — 
One gives a blossom to a soldier who is blind. 
I go into the beautiful Cathedral, which stands heaped 
Against an ancient heaven, 

75 



Like a gray cloud that never comes to storm. . . . 
On the threshold sits a beggar without legs; 
He is whining for alms and doing a good business. 
For have they not signed the armistice in the Forest of 

Compiegne? 
Within the solemn transept, where the eye 
Finds melody in every lifted line. 
Are gentle constellations scattering star-fire through 

the gloom — 
And the veiled women kneel before the shrines with 

their hands crossed on their breasts as white as lilies — 

the pale hands on the black cloth! 

And they light their slender candles before the image 

of the Mother of God, 
Which is in marble. 
And go away, out of the stained dusk that falls through 

the sacred windows. 
To the light in the street, to the light that sears their 

souls, to the light that must be borne. . . . 
What does it mean to them that a paper has been signed 

in the Forest of Compiegne? 

IV 

They have taken the hoods off the street-lamps in Paris! 

They have set darkness aside. 

Like a beautiful woman awakened from hideous dreams, 

She issues forth again, in light, in loveliness. 

Her shapes and contours flow upon the air 

With that hard delicacy which is Gaul — 

And following the long gestures of her body 

Coils her green river, which she binds to her 

With a frozen grace of bridges. . . . 

1 see a great crowd filling the court of the Invalides — 

76 



They are putting fresh flowers on the hood of the eagle 
that Guynemer flew. . . . 

(Death 's but a pillow for the head of fame!) 

There looms the proud, prophetic Arch; nor ever has 
bestrode 

Such triumph as will roll beneath it now ! 

(A brief month hence through this same Gate of Con- 
querors will pass 

One from the West, with a plan for everlasting peace in 
the pocket of his frock-coat ; 

He will ride in an open carriage, between rows of slen- 
der French bayonets, and receive the hopeful ac- 
clamations of the people!) 

Here Notre Dame, rare symphony in stone. 

Utters a silence more divine than song; 

And a mass is going forward in the dim heart of the 
Madeleine, 

Lo, the bowed benches ; and the stout magnificent beadle 
asleep in his chair ! 

In the mists of Paris, where the faces of a hundred 
peoples melt and merge, 

Are soldiers come from battle, and a slow colorable 
whirl of uniforms. 

And quiet funerals spinning black threads through the 
brilliant boulevards. 

V 

I look to the North; past the Forest of Compiegne 

where the pen 
Has scratched the paper. . . . 
There 's a jagged wall. 
Making a grim, dark pattern on the sky — 
Ypres . . . which was once a city! 
Now behold, 

77 



These crosses marching to the horizon — ' 

These graves, like the stilled surges of an ocean dead of 

grief! 
And every mound a nameless Calvary! 
O grateful years. 

Let Belgium evermore be Britain's monument! 
For it was here she stood, invincible. 
And paid her life's blood for a rubbish-heap in 

Flanders. . . . 

VI 

At Verdun they will have a banquet in the Citadel — 

The white-mustached Colonel and his officers ; 

They will sit at table in the little room where speaks the 

banner of the legend : On ne passe pas! 
And they will toast the tidings in a sparkling wine 
Drawn from the deep cellars of Champagne — 
And the dead houses on either side of the Meuse will 

smile from their gaping windows. 
And the Hall of the Bishops where William of Prussia 

had planned his feast of victory, 
Having invited his generals to meet him there, 
Will echo with a ghostly laughter 
Mocking down the ages. . . . 



VII 

In Rheims there will be rejoicing. 

The people will come out of their caves and listen to the 
wonderful stillness, like children listening to a fairy- 
tale; 

And the old caretaker will go into the immortal ruin of 
the Cathedral, 

78 



And twist his hands, and smile faintly up at the face of 
God peering down through the great hole in the 
roof. . . . 

The Simons will come, who in their generations have 
tended the glass of the Cathedral these four hundred 
years and forty, 

And will tell how they climbed the high vault and re- 
moved the priceless panes under the storm of the 
First Bombardment, and saved them, and preserved 
the honor of the house of Simon. . . . 

And the ghosts of the past will assemble 

In vast mystical array, thronging the gashed doors and 
fihng under the withered flower of the Rose win- 
dow — 

Clovis, the convert ; and the Kings of France, 

And Joan, most shining maid ; and there will fall 

A dew of tears, and a dim glamour of sword-fire, and 
hushed voices chanting a litany of Peace before the 
figure of the mutilated Christ. . . . 

VIII 

In the cottage of Domremy the white-haired woman 

who shows the house to travelers 
Will go forth with a soft step into Joan's room. 
And kneel down by the little window that looks on the 

old stone church over the way. 
And cross herself slowly, murmuring fragments of 

prayer. . . . 

IX 

At Chateau-Thierry the townsfolk wiU be strolling out, 

arm in arm, 
Along the bank of the Marne, 

79 



Looking at the broken bridge and telling each other in 

low voices, 
How the Americans stopped the Germans and saved 

Paris ; 
How men from across the sea, in the comitry that 

Lafayette gave his sword to, 
Here mended the break in the hne, 
With their young bodies . . . and went forward. 
Day upon day, 
Walking into the machine guns, and dropping, and 

making a path for the future to tread in. . . . 

X 

All through the Argonne forest where the German 
military mind 

Had made the best hell it could think of. 

Are myriads of little wooden crosses 

Marking the graves of the American boys 

Who died there. 

No one could take the Argonne forest until the Ameri- 
cans came. . . . 

They have signed the armistice in the Forest of Com- 
piegnel 

XI 

From Verdun North and East the armies of the New 

World are marching, 
Towards Coblenz and the Rhine; 
And before them, as they go, 
Blossom innumerable home-made flags, 
Blossom and blow in the streets of the villages, 
Blossom forth from a thousand places of concealment 

where the enemy had never guessed they were 

hidden — 

80 



Like an amazing harvest of wind-flowers 
Blossom and blow. . . . 

XII 

Eastward through Belgium recedes the gray tide 

Like a foul ocean slinking from the shore 

It raged on, yet could never overwhelm ; 

And after it the flood of civilization flows back. . . . 

In Brussels the hero-king comes riding on a great 

horse. 
And the people are filled with the sight of him. 
He goes a way of flowers; and the firmament of his 

brothers' faces is about him ; 
He mounts his throne, and for a space stands tall, 
Holding this moment to his breast, and casting down 

the long corridors of Time 
The shadow of a man. . . . 

XIII 

In the German Empires is an exodus of kings. 

And a popping out of princes 

Who fly over the border. 

And are buried forever with a paragraph. . . . 

Meanwhile the Teutonic revolution marches in good 

order. 
Well-disciplined, and bearing a permit from the police. 
Sobriety sits in the government's benches, 
And the Left is relegated to the roof ! 
In the cafes of Berlin the returned army is dancing with 

its women and trying to forget the war — 
Play loudly, musicians, your Viennese waltzes to 

smother the cries of the daughters of Lille and 

Louvain. . . . 

81 



XIV 

Across the North Sea, in gray weather, swims a sullen 

argosy of ships that once were the playthings of an 

Emperor ; 
Tall ships, swift ships, and ships that go in the water 

like fishes. 
Strong ships, costly ships — 
(We had poured our gold and silver out to buy these 

iron chess-men. 
It was to have been a mighty game between us and 

England ! 
We were to have gambled for the lien of the oceans, 

and for all the ports that lie scattered like jewels on 

the world's breast; 
But . . . they have signed the armistice, and our pawns 

were never played!) 
Futile and impotent they come, and are met by the 

ministers of inexorable judgment. 
By the fleets of Britain and America, 
Not with conclusive thunder-clap, but with silence more 

conclusive still. 
And are gathered to a Scottish harbor, there to lie scowl- 
ing in the mists — 
The Day has dawned; has passed; but not as we had 

dreamed it. . . . 

XV 

In a moated castle in Holland sits a man with a 

shrunken arm; 
He is smoking Turkish cigarettes and covering pages 

of foolscap with explanations of his innocence in the 

matter of the Blood- Storm — 
There is a wall about him as of bodies heaped one upon 

another ; and he walks in a fog of faces. 

82 



The eyes of the dead are on him, so he is never alone. 
He sits at his endless Protest, crying his case into the 

teeth of the silence, and wondering whether he was 

an instrument of divinity after all. ... 

XVI 

Out of Russia, where the feet of Christ are bleeding on 

the snows, 
Stalks a new phantom, wearing a coat of rags — 
A huge and haggard figure, gaunt of visage, pale with 

hunger, 
Whom high oppression had conceived out of the womb 

of Want when it was still the abominable custom of 

these two to lie together — 
Yonder he strides, with a terrible countenance, and 

would cool his thirst at the waters of God's justice; 
Is called a beast, but is only a ravening child. . . . 
Few recognize, in such a dangerous outcast, the figure of 

eternal Freedom groping for its soul! 
Already the forces are gathering to strike him down. 
For he bears a banner, strange and misinterpreted; a 

banner of one color, of one meaning — 
The emblem of the universal State which is but Love 

made comprehensible! 
Too, has he not a creed which says : who lives must labor, 

who sows must reap, who toils must have the triumph 

of his toil? 
Take him of him, O World, for he shall rend you and 

change you — 
You shall feel his burning rags upon your bosom e'er 

the day be spent ; 
You shall lie with him in the abysmal night, 
And wake with him after agonies, 

83 



And find him as a new-born child upon your breast at 
morning. . . . 

XVII 

I stand before my window in the dawn, and the East is 

like an altar covered with a rich cloth ; 
In the deep aisles of the City are passionate marchers 

trampling out a Song, 
And the towers are all in silver ! 
A great clangor is making tidal rhythms in the street. 
Beating against the housewalls with a tossed surf of 

bells — 
And I hear a voice in the tumult crying: 
" They have signed the armistice! The task is done. . /' 
A toy balloon, gay colored, rises suddenly into the air, 

goes floating off upon a brilliant voyage, is pricked 

by a sunbeam, and vanishes .... 
Earth, are you such a bubble? Will you pass thus 

briefly into dissolution, stabbed by some lightning 

out of the enkindled void? 
Were it not better, then, to dance than to dream — ? 
To die in peace rather than to live in travail — 
Nay ! For we tremble on the verge of immortality ; and 

who shall therefore haste to spend his light? 
O Shape beyond the altar of the morning, substance of 

God, or shadow of mankind — 
Grant me, I pray, the valor of the Vision, 
That I may use whatever transient hours are mine 
To live, to labor and to love! 
They have signed the armistice in the Forest of Com- 

piegne — 
The task is just beginning. . . . 



84 



